Where You Haven't Holstered Your Weapon
by Chaplin Hatlow
Summary: Two old friends, one bar, several drinks. (One-shot, ahem.) Adult sexual conversation.


It started innocently enough, retreating to a nearby bar for a bit of post-work relaxation. Just a casual libation and a little outfield chatter to unwind from a rough week. People do this kind of thing all the time; normal people sloughing off the jackets and unbuttoning their button-down minds, unwinding with a buddy over a cold brew.

Just two long-time friends going out for a drink.

The beauty of this, thinks each friend, is the the utter security and familiarity of every single thing you will discuss. You've known each other for years, maybe a third of your life or more, The vulgarity of surprise cannot possibly jolt the smooth dismount from work to bar stool. You've shared the same stories a thousand times, to the point where (if you were rude, but you certainly _aren't_ rude), you could finish sentences for each other. You don't have to think, which is precisely the thing you crave. Your conversation becomes like sex in a long-married couple's life; it's predictable but it still feels pretty damned good.

After a while under the work microscope, where every word and phrase and eye twitch is cataloged and analyzed and profiled, what you most yearn for is dark anonymity and companionable silence. You just want to sit and nurse something icy and slip into a shapeless, indiscernible heap of near-humanity.

And on this particular night at this particular tavern, the beautiful stillness and hushed camaraderie lasted exactly one hour and six minutes.

The murky half-light provided by the recessed bulbs and neon beer signs made a shadow play of sudden movement at the furthest, darkest corner table. Voices rose and a vaguely human shape jumped to stand, arm-shapes gesticulating wildly. A second shape hunkered further down into it's wooden pub chair, then reached out a placating hand to quiet the first.

No dice.

Four drinks into the evening, Shape One was just getting warmed up.

"Holy crap, Aaron... how can you have lived your entire adult life and... and _never_... ?" Dave Rossi flailed his arms helplessly, like a drowning man, then slumped back, fingers pressed against his forehead.

Cringing, Aaron Hotchner tugged at his already loosened tie, sleeves on his previously-crisp white dress shirt rolled rather sloppily to the elbow. He desperately wished his inflammatory statement back into his mouth. Why had he said what he said aloud? He _thought_ it, but somehow the idea had made itself into words and jumped out of his mouth and onto the tabletop beside the dampened bar coasters. Then they jumped up and down until they caught Dave's attention, and Dave snagged that sentence like an easy pop fly. Hotch had realized the split-second the words were out of his mouth, but there was no sucking them back in. And all he had to do was snicker knowingly afterward, and it'd have been a great joke to drape over the truth. But there it was, the spoken fact thrown out there on the table, ready to be dissected like a frog in a biology classroom.

Hotchner stole a guilty look around the bar. Luckily, the it was nearly empty, so there wasn't a crowd of witnesses to his embarrassment. However, the slow Tuesday night meant that the music was low, and the handful of patrons and staff now leaned ever so slightly in his direction.

"Dave," Hotch hissed at his effusively muttering Italian friend, who was all but saying the rosary after Aaron's stunning confession. "Everyone is staring. Please..." his tone shifted slightly, any authority all but gone, now pleading, leaning forward and placing a hand on his friend's arm.

Rossi grasped the hand on his sleeve, clutching it in both his own. He leaned close, wanting nothing more than to understand how this... this _problem_... had gone unchecked for so long.

Hotch tried to disentangle his hand from Rossi's, but it was like wrestling an octopus. Dave, literally, kept the upper hand, patting it soothingly.

"There, there... it'll be okay..." he whispered.

Hotch, cheeks flaming, finally jerked his hand free.

"Damn it, Dave!" he shouted, pushing himself up rather unsteadily from the table. Aaron Hotchner was not a drinker, by any standards. The dollop of bourbon or scotch he sometimes poured post-work was more a prop, a cue to relax. He rarely even finished the one drink. Two beers was his limit; at three, he might start getting silly. If there was anything that stoic, dependable Special Supervisory Agent Aaron Hotchner wanted to avoid, it was looking silly.

Tonight, however, Rossi had smooth-talked him into three healthy Long Island iced teas. Thus, Hotch stood, weaving slightly, loosened tie askew, in a near-empty bar. He tried to glare at Dave but his friend kept swimming slightly out of focus. Hotch blinked, owlishly, and half-forgot why he was angry.

Dave, palms raised in consolation, rose slowly. He placed a caring, almost fatherly arm around his friend's shoulder and directed him gently back to his seat. Leaning forward, he tried again to understand the situation. The waiter swept by very helpfully and silently deposited two more drinks on the table. Dave slipped him a twenty.

"Aaron, Aaron... we'll figure this out." David Rossi spoke with the almost-smug assurance of the federal agent who always gets his man. He had tackled dozens, hundreds of the wiliest criminal minds, the most evasive felons, the slaughteriest of serial killers; he could put his finely-honed investigative mind to work on this... issue. Aaron Hotchner was his best friend; Rossi owed it to him to help. But first things first; bathroom break. Hotch had nearly literally shocked the piss out of him.

Rossi patted Hotch on the shoulder as he stood.

"You wait here, I gotta see a man about a warrant," Rossi jerked a thumb toward the back hallway. He stood, still shaking his head as he walked, casting a sad glance back at his poor, suffering pal.

Hotch sat, emotionally pendulum-swinging from outright hostility to utter dejection. He slumped forward at the wooden bar table, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes until stars danced behind the closed lids.

 _Why do I do these things?_ Hotch asked himself silently. _I know that honesty is the best policy, ninety-nine percent of the time. But that other one percent... damn it._

The conversation had started so innocently, or rather, not so 'innocently'. Dave and Hotch were the discussing women; to be fair, Dave was discussing women, Hotch was being the appreciative audience, replying in the right places, staying silent in others. Laughing when Dave did the Groucho Marx waggling-eyebrows innuendo, agreeing on the important aspects of particular sexual components. As they had done for nearly twenty years, so the stories rolled tonight.

Until deep into the third Long Island iced tea, when Dave made the comment (and Hotch cringed anew recalling the precise moment), and all Hotch had to do was nod and say "Uh-huh" when Dave said "You know?"

But instead of "Uh huh", he had truthfully replied "Huh uh", because he literally did not know.

And Dave had pounced on him like a big butch tomcat on a teensy little emasculated mouse.

Aaron Hotchner sank lower in his chair, wondering briefly if it were possible to strangle oneself with one's own necktie.

In his mind, the conversation looped:

 _Dave: "You know?" (wink wink implied)_

 _Aaron: "Huh uh." (because he certainly got the idea, but there was only hearsay to support his opinion, and somehow his brain opted to rat him out.)_

 _CAUTION: SCREECHING CONVERSATIONAL HALT. PLEASE TIGHTEN YOUR SAFETY BELTS._

 _Dave: "What?"_

 _Aaron: "Uhhh... I mean, I know, yeah, sure.. go on."_

 _Dave: "No, I think we have a problem here, Aaron."_

 _Aaron: "Uh... no, I know what you meant, I was just..."_

 _ABORT MISSION. DIVE! DIVE! DIVE!_

 _Dave: "No, let's backtrack here. I believe I said 'You know, how when a woman..."_

 _Aaron (frantically interrupting): "No, I …."_

 _Dave (continuing unabated): "...has your cock just about as far down her throat as you can imagine..."_

 _Aaron: "Dave, seriously, I..."_

 _Dave: "...and then she goes down about another inch', and you said 'Huh uh', which I assume is either..."_

 _Aaron: "Dave, everyone is looking..."_

 _Dave: "And if they are, they're looking because you're yelling at me..."_

 _Aaron (voice rising): "Dave, I am not yelling..."_

 _Silence, as Dave stared at his crime-busting partner. Tough, stoic, unflinching Aaron Hotchner. Looking for the tell, the crack in the armor... a man like Aaron Hotchner would obviously be compensating for some lack of practical experience, Dave thought. Studying him closely, Hotch squirming under the scrutiny. Hard to believe at that moment, how the otherwise over-achieving, high ranking marksman Aaron Hotchner... Aha._

 _Dave (measuring his words); "Aaron, your office is full of marksmanship trophies. Could you tell me... please... where you haven't... ahh... holstered your weapon?"_

 _Aaron knew when he was beaten. Truth out, rip off the bandage, just say it and it's over with._

 _Aaron: "Okay, so what? So I've never... er... done.. the... I mean... I haven't..."_

 _Dave (supplying the words): "You've never engaged in oral sex?"_

 _Aaron: "Yeah, so big deal, right?"_

 _Dave: "Holy crap, Aaron... how can you have lived your entire adult life and... and never... ?"_

 _(Dave Rossi flailed his arms helplessly, like a drowning man, then slumped back, fingers pressed against his forehead.)_

Aaron Hotchner pressed his fingers to his now-throbbing temples as he heard footsteps behind him.

This was the start of a very long night.


End file.
